The Girl in the Nile

by Michael Pearce

  “We must do something about those birds,” said Paul. “They’re becoming a problem.”

  “Is there a political solution for that, too?” asked Owen.

  “Firepower,” said Paul, undisconcerted. “War is the extension of politics by other means.”

  “I don’t think that will help with Zeinab.”

  “Compromise,” said Paul. “That’s what we’ve got to go for.”

  “I tell you Zeinab isn’t interested in compromise.”

  “She adopts a strong negotiating position.”

  “No, no, it’s not like that, Paul. She means what she says.”

  “Heavens! Unorthodox, too! That does require some thought.”

  A whistle blew and the match ended. The hockey players trooped off and began to make their way back towards the clubhouse.

  “The only way forward I can see,” said Paul, “is to distribute the problem through time.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, that’s it. It’s simpler than I had thought. In political terms, that is. It’s just a straightforward bargaining situation distributed over time.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Paul?”

  “You see, Zeinab’s not going to move until the Leila business gets settled. The Leila business is not going to get settled until the Agreement gets signed. (I mean, afterwards who cares a damn what Narouz thinks or does?) So all you’ve got to do is wait for the Agreement to get signed. Then you can get going on the case. And then, when you’ve got that sorted out, things will get sorted out with Zeinab, too.”

  “How long is all that going to take?”

  “Oh, if there’s no hiccup in the negotiations, the Agreement will be signed within a couple of months or so.”

  “You mean wait a couple of months? And then sort the case out? And only then—?”

  “We all have to make sacrifices, Gareth.”

  ***

  By about ten in the morning the sun was already dazzlingly bright and all living objects were seeking the shade. One of the orderlies came round closing the shutters. The room was plunged into darkness and stayed like that for the rest of the day.

  At first it was cool and rather pleasant but as the day wore on, the temperature in the room rose. You opened the door into the corridor but not the window into the sun and that way you got—but perhaps this was fancy—a draft of air.

  There were fans suspended from the ceilings in each of the rooms but in Owen’s view all they did was to move hot air from one place to another and he very rarely switched his on. Besides, they blew the papers all over the place.

  This morning was papers. He had a pile on his desk which he was working systematically through; reports from agents, neatly docketed and summarized by Nikos, offensive memoranda from the Finance Department, irrelevant offerings from Personnel and aggrieved submissions from the Khedive, the Kadi, the Mufti and all the others who considered that the Mamur Zapt was exceeding his powers.

  He pushed them all aside. On the end of the desk was a heap of newspapers. The ones he had were in Arabic, French and English. The ones in Italian, Greek, Armenian, Turkish and Amharic would go to other people in the office. Cairo was a polyglot community and had a lively press.

  Too lively on occasion. One of the Mamur Zapt’s duties was to read the press before publication and excise any passage he considered inflammatory. Censorship? Call it ensuring that people’s feelings were not offended.

  He picked up one of the newspapers and began reading. It was the influential Al-Liwa, nationalist in sympathies and radical in tone. Also windy rhetorical in tone. It was heavy going. His attention wandered.

  What was he going to do? He had tried all his usual lines, Paul, Garvin, others, the ones he always used when he wanted to get official policy reversed or amended, and he had got nowhere. The Administration, this time, was showing unusual unanimity.

  Obviously, the Agreement mattered. Well, he didn’t mind that; it mattered to him, too. He wanted to stay in Egypt, didn’t he? And, unfortunately, that meant going along with the Khedive. They were there by his invitation and only by his invitation. The other powers didn’t like it—they wanted Britain to get out of Egypt—but so long as the fiction could be maintained that the British were there at the express request of the Egyptian sovereign, there was not much they could do about it.

  Owen was all for the Agreement. He was also, on the whole, for the Khedive on the grounds that at least he was the devil they knew. True, there were some things he didn’t like about the Khedive’s regime, the patronage, the corruption, the inefficiency. He could understand the desire of people like Mahmoud for reform and change.

  Well, they could certainly have change. The British Government in London, the Administration itself in Egypt, was committed to Progress. Within limits, of course. But it had to be gradual, orderly change, sensible reform, rather on the British model. He was all in favor of that.

  And there was no real discrepancy, either, between that—in general—and the Agreement.

  It was only when they got down to the particular that problems arose. And Zeinab, unfortunately, tended to think in terms of the particular. It must be something to do, he decided, with her lack of a formal education.

  She was very difficult to reason with. He couldn’t see much hope that way.

  But nor could he see much hope any other way. He had tried all other things he knew. Everywhere, the way was blocked.

  What was he going to do?

  And then, as his eye flicked mechanically over the page, it caught something tucked away at the bottom of one of the columns.

  Chapter Seven

  “How did they get hold of that?” said Garvin.

  “I could ask them,” said Owen, “but would that be a good idea?”

  “No,” said Garvin, pushing the newspaper back to him, “I suppose you are right.”

  “It would just give it more prominence. They would know they were onto something.”

  “You’re not going to let it go out, though?”

  “No, I’ve cut it, along with a lot of other passages. It’s just one among many. They may think it’s just because it contains a reference to the Khedive’s family.”

  Garvin looked at the passage again.

  “I don’t think they’ll think that,” he said.

  “Then what would you suggest we do?”

  “I’ll have to take advice,” said Garvin.

  He drummed his fingers on his desk.

  “Owen,” he said, “doesn’t this come a bit pat?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been trying to get us not to hush this case up.”

  “I’ve been trying to get you not to block it.”

  “Same thing. I was wondering—”

  “If I’d leaked this myself?”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “It falls a little conveniently.”

  Owen shrugged. He picked up the newspaper and read the passage again. It read:

  A young woman, Miss Leila Sekhmet, was drowned in the river last week. Apparently, she fell off a boat. That is strange, for the boat was moored for the night and the river was calm. What is even stranger is that the boat was a dahabeeyah under the hire of Prince Narouz. What was a young, unmarried girl doing at night on the Prince’s dahabeeyah, we wonder? And what happened, that a girl should fall overboard? The Parquet are investigating.

  “It would be interesting to know how they got it,” he said. “The information is good.”

  “So good,” said Garvin, “that—”

  “I must have given it them?” Owen smiled. “I might have,” he said, “if I’d thought of it. But even if I did, we’re still left with the same question: what are we going to do about it?”

  ***

  “It’s put the
cat among the pigeons,” said Paul. “It really has. You’re sure you’re nothing to do with it?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “I’m all for sharp maneuvers, Gareth, but I like to be on the inside of them.”

  “Haven’t I always kept you on the inside of them?”

  “So long as it stays like that.”

  “It’ll stay like that. Anyway, I don’t go in for sharp maneuvers much myself. I always come to you for them.”

  Paul sighed.

  “Why do I allow myself to be persuaded by this unscrupulous Welsh Levantine?” he asked.

  A suffragi went by carrying two sherry glasses on a silver tray. Paul intercepted him.

  “Which for you?” he asked Owen. “Pale or medium?”

  “Pale.”

  “I feel pale. You can have the medium.”

  “Would the effendi prefer sweet?” asked the suffragi.

  “No, thanks. The world isn’t very sweet just at the moment.”

  The Consul-General’s agents, fresh from England, might not have been prepared to agree with him. There was a near-Indian opulence about the proceedings. The light from the heavy gilt chandelier overhead sparkled on the silverware: little ornate Persian boxes of sweets and cigarettes, huge Arabesque trays of silver and bronze, the filigree of dainty caskets, the solider work of massive fruit bowls, the trays of the turbanned, red-sashed suffragis gliding round with drinks.

  The reception was being held in the main hall of the Residency. The marble floor was already crowded with guests. Knots of expatriates had gathered around each visitor, eager for news from England. Senior Egyptians from the Ministries talked quietly among themselves. Practiced diplomats from the embassies circulated among the groups.

  Normally Paul would have been circulating with the best of them, oiling the wheels. The moment Owen had come in, however, he had waylaid him and taken him off behind the potted palms.

  “Well,” he said, “if it’s not you, it’s serious.”

  “I’m glad you put it like that,” said Owen. “Garvin put it the other way: if it was me, there’d be trouble.”

  “Oh, that too,” said Paul, waving a hand dismissively.

  “But you’re right. It is serious. It’s bound to get out now. I’ve stopped it this time but it will come out somewhere else. In one of the illegal papers. The point is, they’ve spotted it. And once that has happened, it’s only a matter of time.”

  A group began to form on the other side of the potted palms. A tall Egyptian looked over, saw Paul and waved his hand. Paul waved back. A short, plump man in tails peered round the edge of the plants.

  “My God!” he said. “The Mamur Zapt! Plotting, as usual.”

  “But not against you this time, Chargé,” said Owen in French. “We stand shoulder to shoulder.”

  “It’s my back I’m worried about,” said the Chargé. “Come and see me some time. Come to dinner. Bring Zeinab.”

  “I will, tomorrow,” Owen promised.

  The Chargé waved a hand and turned back into the group. Paul drew Owen a little further away.

  “That’s another problem,” said Owen.

  “What?”

  “Zeinab.”

  “Forget Zeinab. What are we going to do about this mess?”

  “I can suppress it for a time. I can garble it when it comes out. I can camouflage it with other things. But in the end it will come out.”

  “How long’s the end?”

  “Two weeks, perhaps three. Two days if we’re unlucky.”

  “The Agreement will take at least another month.”

  “Why don’t we just disown Narouz? We and the Khedive?”

  “It is Narouz, is it?”

  “Well,” Owen admitted, “we can’t be completely certain.”

  “We can hardly disown him publicly, then.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of going as far as that. I was just thinking that if the case were unblocked—”

  “Gareth,” said Paul, “are you absolutely certain that you didn’t plant the story yourself?”

  “Absolutely certain. I would have remembered a thing like that.”

  “It’s just that it’s amazingly convenient.”

  “It seems so, I know. But actually,” said Owen, “I find it rather worrying. You see, up to now we’ve been able to keep it fairly tight. But this means it may be moving out of our control. Once people get hold of a thing like this they can start using it.”

  “So?”

  “It needs to be wrapped up quickly. We want to get it out of the way before it starts escalating. Let Mahmoud get on with it. If it is Narouz, and the Khedive is bothered, we can tell Narouz to get out of the country quick. If it’s not, we can finish it off without too many questions being asked. But we’ve got to move fast.”

  “This haste,” said Paul, “it’s not anything to do with Zeinab, is it?”

  “Certainly not,” said Owen.

  ***

  Zeinab kissed him.

  “I knew you would find a way,” she said.

  Owen kissed her back: then said, “Actually, it’s not me.”

  Zeinab pushed him away. “What do you mean: it’s not you?”

  Owen reluctantly let her go.

  “It’s someone else. Nothing to do with me.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Zeinab.

  “Someone else leaked it. Or else found it out. They gave it to Al-Liwa.”

  “It’s not in Al-Liwa. I was reading it this morning.”

  “I know. I cut it out.”

  “You cut it out? Then…?”

  “I just used it. Privately.”

  Zeinab couldn’t make it out. However, she was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Well,” she said, “at least that’s something.”

  “The effect is the same. The case is unblocked. Mahmoud can get on with it. So why don’t we—”

  “Not so fast,” said Zeinab. “You haven’t done anything yet.”

  “I’ve unblocked the case, haven’t I?”

  “I don’t think that counts.”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “No. That’s not enough. I want Leila avenged.”

  “Avenged! Look, at the most all I could do was bring whoever did it to trial.”

  “As long as they die,” said Zeinab, “I don’t mind about the means.”

  “I can’t do that!”

  “If you can’t,” said Zeinab, “I won’t.”

  And wouldn’t be moved. Owen went off in a huff and read the papers. Zeinab curled up on a divan, deliberately provocatively, thought Owen, and ate Turkish Delight.

  After a while Owen said: “There’s something you could do to help.”

  “I might be prepared to do that,” conceded Zeinab, dusting the powder from her fingers. “What did you have in mind?”

  ***

  A call came from Prince Narouz.

  “He’s got the message quick,” said Owen.

  “He wants you to see him,” said Nikos.

  The Prince was waiting for him on the terrace of the Hotel Continental, sitting by himself and looking bored. His eyes lit up when he saw Owen.

  “My dear fellow!” He waved him up. “A drink? Whisky, perhaps?”

  He was having one himself. It was another of those things, like the green car, which made him a less than perfect Moslem. It would also, Owen thought, make him a less than perfect candidate for Khedive when a vacancy arose. Perhaps the British should back off him.

  He sat down at the table and looked over the balustrade at the Street of the Camel below. It was the Regent Street of Cairo; except that in Regent Street you would not see a man walking by with a stuffed crocodile on his head or a pig being carried by in a cage.

  Wh
at you would see, of course, were tourists and there were plenty of these. They came down the steps of the hotel with their Kodaks—at the Continental there was always a large number of Americans—and were immediately fallen upon by dragomans, donkey-boys and street traders of all kinds, all offering instant picturesqueness without the trouble of having to go too far in the heat to find it.

  “Have you noticed,” said the Prince, “that their business has changed? They used to sell beads and hippopotamus-hide whips and boa constrictors. Now they sell themselves to be photographed. That man, for instance”—he pointed to the one with the stuffed crocodile on his head—“he does not expect to actually sell the damned thing. Who would want to buy a stuffed crocodile? But a photograph, ah, well, that’s a different thing. The tourist can carry it home much more conveniently; and the crocodile remains to be used another day.”

  The Prince sipped his whisky.

  “From the point of view of trade it is an improvement. But to my mind it’s got the thing the wrong way round. The really exotic thing is the camera. And for that”—he looked around with distaste—“you don’t need to come to Egypt.”

  “There are, after all, other places.”

  “True; and I wish I were in them.”

  “Ah well, you may be able to escape soon,” said Owen, saying the thing he thought he was being invited to say.

  “You think so? Well, I hope you are right. This family business goes on and on.”

  The waiter brought Owen a whisky packed with ice, and a little pewter jug of water, also iced. Even in the best hotels they tended to view whisky as a kind of pastis and served it for drinking in the French way.

  “And how, my dear fellow, are you getting on with your case?” asked the Prince.

  “Oh,” said Owen, “it moves, like all these things, in fits and starts. At the moment, I would say, it was starting again.”

  “Oh, good,” said the Prince. He looked, however, troubled.

  “Yes,” said Owen, “I think it will soon be picking up momentum.”

  “Excellent,” said the Prince, fidgeting with his glass.

  “We’ll soon be getting somewhere.”

  The Prince swirled the ice in the bottom of his glass and inspected it. He was about to speak and then thought better of it.